A Blunder in Basingstoke
by hayleysussman
Summary: Sherlock and John search for answers on their first case in weeks: the murder of a woman named Charlotte Braxton. Why was she murdered? Does Moriarty have something to do with it?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is the first chapter of my first Sherlock fan fiction (actually it's basically my first ever fan fiction). I'll try to update the story often, if it's any good. If you like it (or if you don't) please leave comments and suggestions! **

"John, we've got a case!" Sherlock boomed as his flatmate entered the cluttered apartment. The tall "consulting detective" nearly leapt out of his chair; this was the first worthwhile case in weeks.

Nearly running into John on his way out of 221 B Baker Street, Sherlock shouted to his landlady, "There's finally a murder! It's Christmas, Mrs. Hudson!"

...

"What have we got, Anderson?" asked John, as the three men surrounded the corpse laying on the floor of a dusty warehouse on the outskirts of London.

"30 year old woman. No vehicle outside, so we're not sure how she got here; she's from Basingstoke. And according to her driver's license -"

"Come on! You must be an idiot to provide such shallow information."

"Have you got any better?"

John put his head in his hands, almost embarrassed by Anderson's ridiculous question.

"My goodness, Anderson! Use your head for once! You must have a higher IQ than that of a child. Or perhaps I spoke too soon."

"So what have you got, oh great one?" Anderson questioned sarcastically.

"Well, for one thing, look at her body. No wounds."

"Clearly."

"But look at the position of her arms and legs. She wasn't alone when she died. Somebody moved her body. And-" Sherlock suddenly stopped speaking.

"Well, what is it?" the forensic detective said impatiently.

"Oh," the dark haired man breathed as he swiftly walked away from the crime scene. John quickly followed, shooting the third man a look of perplexity.

"Where are you two going? Sherlock!" Anderson shouted after the pair, but they did not break their stride.

...

"Sherlock, where _are _we going?"

"Oh, John, people can be so naive. Luckily, I'm hardly human," Sherlock smirked as the two men piled into a taxi.


	2. Chapter 2

John gazed out the window on Sherlock's side of the cab, watching raindrops slide down the glass, but also occasionally stealing glimpses of his roommate's face. He could not come close to fathom what it was like for Sherlock, always being hated for simply being different. Well, okay maybe he was hated also because he was somewhat of an arrogant arse, but that was beside the point.

Suddenly John's thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock's gruff voice.

"Carter's Primary School."

"Excuse me?"

"That's where we're going."

"May I ask why?"

"Oh good god, John. Her pants! They had crayon marks on them!"

"Couldn't that just mean she has children?"

"The marks were far too plenty for that. Plus, she had no wedding ring."

"So you automatically assume she's a primary school teacher."

"Of course."

"Why this particular school?"

Sherlock groaned, clearly annoyed by John's constant flow of questions. "Anderson can be quite the annoyance, but I don't tune him out completely. The woman was from Basingstoke. Carter's is the only primary in the entire city that had classes today. There's major flooding in most other parts of Basingstoke. Amazing what a few simple Google searches can reveal."

"Incredible," John stated, awestruck yet again. He was never short of amazed by what went on in that man's mind.

"Also," added the curly haired man, "her keychain had 'Carter's Primary School' written on it."

And with that, the friends chuckled.

. . .

After about an hour, the cab passed a sign that read in bold white letters, "Welcome to Basingstoke." John had only been to this town a couple of times. It was mostly modern looking, apart from a few old chapels and castles. Basingstoke was a pretty city, but the rain made it appear rather gloomy and mildly eery.

Jesus. Sherlock wasn't kidding; the streets were almost knee-deep in water. Other than a few cars and insane pedestrians braving the harsh downpour of fist sized raindrops, it was basically a ghost town.

The car turned into a little parking lot, marked by a colorful, but worn, sign that read "Carter's Primary School; Placing the building blocks to offer children a brighter future."

"Here'll be fine," Sherlock said, handing the cab driver money.

The two walked through the rubber-covered gate into the courtyard of the small school. To the right, a group of about 20 kids were playing on a jungle gym, and off to the left were the classrooms. Sherlock swerved left, and John followed.

"So your plan is to walk into a classroom filled with young children and inform them that their teacher has been brutally murdered?"

"Precisely. See, John? You're catching on rather quickly!"

The gray-haired man rolled his eyes as he opened the door to a classroom that had the dead woman's name on it. But, when he peered inside the room, he did not notice the children or the puzzle of European countries they were putting together. He did not see the inspirational posters hung up on the walls, and he did not see the backpacks that lined the group directly beside his feet.

The only thing he, or Sherlock, saw was a familiar face, and the only thing they heard was "Mr. Moriarty!"

. . .

"Well, hello boys! What a coincidence, bumping into you here!"

"John, what do we say about coincidences?"

"The-," John started, but Moriarty answered before him.

"The universe is rather so lazy, yadda, yadda, yadda. But that's quite adorable, Sherlock. You and your partner finishing each others' sentences."

John glanced over at Sherlock, who had not broken his menacing stare directed at Moriarty.

"Jim, why don't we take this," John tilted his head toward the kids sitting on the carpet, "outside."

"It's a bit nippy out there, don't you think?"

Then Sherlock finally spoke. "Why was Charlotte Braxton murdered?"

The evil man who once strapped a bomb to John simply shrugged his shoulders and grinned. "I think you must know the answer to that already, Mr. Holmes."

John looked at Sherlock again, who now seemed to be solely concentrating on solving this murder. He always looked somewhat distressed when going to his 'mind palace.' John sometimes wished that he himself had such a place to store extraneous information, so as to be of help to his friend during cases, but alas he did not.

However, it seemed as though Sherlock did not need John's help this time; he seemed to have found his desired answers within seconds.

"I knew there was something off about her face. Her mouth was turned into somewhat of a smile. People don't die with smiles plastered across their faces. There's a killer in Northern Ireland who does this, though. The Jester. But he doesn't kill for himself."

"So that means someone really wanted Charlotte dead," John said.

"Yes, or _needed_ her dead."


	3. Chapter 3

_flashback_

"I knew from the moment I met you that you were going to be the one. It was something about the way that you carried yourself; how you knew you were amazing, but still made everyone else feel just as grand. And I've loved you more and more every moment since. I love the way your eyes crinkle when you smile, the way your voice cracks when you laugh. I love how you let me hold the umbrella much too high for you so that I can protect myself from the rain, and I love how you can walk up several flights of stairs in extraordinarily high heels. I love the way you challenge me, like when we went rock climbing, which incidentally turned out to be the biggest mistake of my life. But that's beside the point." The man then knelt down and pulled out a small, red-velvet covered box. Inside was the most extravagant, captivating ring the woman had ever seen. "The point is, although this ring is sparkly and shiny, you can simply look in a mirror and find something infinite times as beautiful. So, Charlotte Braxton, will you marry me?" he asked, tears now forming in his eyes.

"Yes! Of course, yes," she cried, her smile wider than the Grand Canyon. "I would love to be called Mrs. Moriarty."

. . .

_present day_

"I need to see the body again!" Sherlock restated, for the umpteenth time. After their run-in with Moriarty, the pair returned to the flat so that Sherlock could concentrate on going to his mind palace. However, it seemed as though the answers they needed were hidden somewhere on the woman's corpse instead.

"Sherlock, I cannot say this again: Anderson said the scene is closed. The body's probably been moved by now anyway."

"The hell with Anderson! Call George, would you?"

"Greg, you mean?"

"Greg?"

"Lestrade."

"Mmm, yes. I was certain his name was George!"

"No, Sherlock. It's always been Greg. But no, I can't call Greg. He's on vacation in the Virgin Islands."

"Crime takes no vacations, John!"

"Sure, but Greg does. I'm not calling him."

Sherlock banged his hand against the wall in utter frustration. It was necessary that he see the body immediately. He knew there must be some sort of obvious clue, he just knew it.

"Jesus, fine," John reluctantly said. "I'll try Anderson's mobile again."

Just as John was about to grab his cell phone, Sherlock's rang.

"Well, who is it then?" the shorter man inquired.

Sherlock put the phone to his ear, and after a few moments, without having said a single word, returned it to his coat pocket.

"Sherlock?"

"The body. It's not hers."

"What? I don't understand."

"The body that we saw in that warehouse does not belong to Charlotte Braxton."


End file.
